Miranda
“You can hardly blame them,” Tom said. “It’s the world they live in.”
“Hogwash,” she said, using the favorite term of the salesmen who’d tried to get them to purchase a ridiculously expensive crusher on the spot.
“It does seem like you should be more famous, though, as the first woman vintner in the state.”
She shrugged. Then she asked, because she’d always been curious, “What do the men say about me when I’m not around? I’ve always wondered.”
He hesitated, gripping the steering wheel. “Men can be really crass, Miranda. Do you really want to hear this?”
“Maybe not,” she said, looking at the miles of flat San Joaquin Valley farmland go by out the passenger side window. “Crass, huh? So they make, like, sex jokes?”
“I’m getting mixed messages here. One second you say you don’t want to know, and then next you’re guessing. Which is it?”
“I guess I don’t want to know.”
“I think that’s for the best. And honestly, it’s all the assholes of the business anyway. The Mondavis and Winiarski and Paschich respect you enormously, and think you have serious balls for sticking it out after your dad died.”
“Balls are crass and flattering,” she pointed out.
“True.” He laughed. “And really, the rest of them are just jealous they couldn’t get in your pants.”
“It’s not like they were lining up to take me out.”
“Of course not. These are the kinds of men who think women in tight red dresses should throw themselves at them. That’s not you.”
Miranda grinned slyly. “So do you get bonus points for landing me?”
Tom laughed harder this time. “Landing you?”
“Isn’t that one of those things crass men say?”
“No, we say ‘teach her a lesson.’ ”
“You want to teach me a lesson?” she said suggestively.
“Do you want me to pull over right now, little lady?”
He was daring her, and she liked it.
And there was no one on the road.
“Yes,” she said. “Pull over.” Now she was daring him.
He pulled off at the next exit and miraculously found a shady nook where they managed to have great sex and laugh at more crass jokes till their sides cramped.
In 1975, Hartley wines started getting noticed in competitions around the country.
The chardonnay was the winner only once, but it and the cab were the runners-up in many others, which meant plenty of free press when the wine journalists in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Chicago, Boston, and New York wrote about the “little winery out in Napa, California” producing “exquisite” wines “on par with the best French we’ve tasted. ”
Will, who was now their full-time head of marketing, having quit the far less lucrative newspaper gig, pulled quotes like that right into the copy he wrote for press releases and ads when they released limited edition wines at the holidays and for new harvests.
The good news about their wine was finally starting to build on itself, and the vineyard started to make real money.
Miranda began to relax. Things were going well.
She even enrolled herself in a watercolor class at a gallery in St. Helena that showed excellent local painters but needed extra income as they grew their reputation.
On Thursday nights, she finished class at nine rejuvenated from holding a paintbrush and giving herself over to the way water and pigment made convincing light and shadow on paper.
Tom would come back from San Francisco, where he still checked on his legal practice, and he’d pick her up and bring her back to his little ranch and they’d picnic on cheese and salami and sourdough he’d brought back from the city.
Waking up together Friday mornings was her favorite part of the week.
He always made delicious coffee and brought her a first cup to sip together in bed.
Often they’d have their second cup with sourdough toast if they hadn’t devoured the whole loaf the night before.
Then they’d kiss goodbye and head to their own wineries.
One of those mornings, Tom had leaned over to give Miranda a butter-and-jam kiss and said, “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she’d said, marveling at the simplicity and truth of the moment, as if they’d been saying this to each other every morning for years.
In the final stretch of summer, on a day when the sun’s heat pierced the protective coating of her hat and shirt, she suddenly felt faint and sick, almost as if she hadn’t had breakfast.
But she’d had breakfast with Tom just a few hours before.
She barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up barely digested bread and jam into the toilet.
Heart racing, she marveled. I never get sick.
Searching for reasons she might feel under the weather, she finally wondered: Is this my period?
What day was it? She usually got her period the first few days of the month.
It was mid-month.
Frantic, she went to the calendar in her office and flipped through the days of the past month or two, trying to remember when she’d last had her period.
It had been at least seven weeks.
Oh shit, she thought, though the possibility that she might be pregnant filled her with joy. It wasn’t how she would have planned it, but…what was it Mrs. Sullivan was always saying? Men plan, and God laughs.
Miranda thought of how Rachel had accidentally gotten pregnant with her third child years ago, and her own jealousy at that happy event.
Now here she was…
She laughed out loud.
Was there a way for her to know for sure?
After shutting the door of her office, she dialed Rachel’s number. “I have a huge secret,” she said right after her friend said hello.
“Oh, goody! My favorite kind of phone call!”
“I think I might be pregnant.”
Rachel squealed with delight. “Yay!”
“How do I find out for sure?”
“Impatient, are we?”
“This is not the time for teasing.”
“Yes, your doctor should have a test you can take. You might have to wait a few days for the result, though. When was your last period?”
“Almost two months ago, and I just threw up. I never throw up.”
“You are so totally pregnant, my friend.”
Miranda smiled so hard her cheeks hurt.
“Are you going to tell Tom?”
The thought of telling him brought two images simultaneously to her mind: one in which he threw his arms around her, twirled her around, and the other in which he stared at her, slack jawed.
After all, he was forty-two and didn’t have any children; they’d never talked about whether that had been by choice or not.
“I think I need to know for sure first.”
“Go to my OB. She used to be a midwife, and she’s amazing.”
Miranda took down the information, made an appointment, and peed in a cup that was sent out for testing.
Fortunately, all weekend she and Tom were busy in their fields, the kind of busy that made vintners tumble into a dreamless sleep every night, so she was able to shove the possibility of being pregnant out of her mind.
Then, she had an answer on Monday.
She was indeed pregnant.
When she got the call from the doctor’s office, she was standing in the kitchen while her mother made lunch and as soon as she hung up, an effervescent happiness filled her entire body. She felt like she might actually lift off the ground.
When she looked at her mother, she saw that Joan was smiling, hands hovering over a plate of half-cut tomatoes.
“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”
“How did you know?”
“You’ve been sick every morning for a week, but you look happier than I’ve ever seen you.”
Miranda pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I am.”
“This is wonderful, Miranda.”
“Are you excited to be a grandmother?”
At this Joan put down her knife, then hugged her daughter.
“We have to find a better name than Grandma. I may make great pies, but I’m not going to wear silly glasses and dumpy dresses like a storybook grandmother.”
Miranda laughed. “You can pick whatever name you want, Mom. I’m going to tell Tom.” The adrenaline from the happiness overpowered her nerves, thankfully. Surely he’d be excited about this, too?
“Of course,” Joan said. “Go.”
Miranda picked up her car keys, and her mother said, “It’s really wonderful, Miranda. I’m happy for you. Tom is a good man.”
A blessing at last.
Tom was happier than her wildest predictions. Not only did he lift her off the ground in triumphant bliss, he laughed ecstatically, and said, “Miranda, you have made me the happiest man alive.”
“You’re sure you don’t mind we’re doing all this out of order?”
He got a smirk on his face, and said, “Not quite. Stay here.”
Then he disappeared upstairs for a minute or two, and returned holding a blue velvet box.
“No,” Miranda said, holding her hands to her mouth.
“Well, I hope that’s not your answer,” he said as he kneeled down in front of her, opened the box to reveal a simple gold band with a solitaire diamond that had astonishing sparkle.
He took her left hand in his, and said, “Miranda Hartley, meeting you is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
I am happier with you than I ever thought possible, and this life we’ve created together is only the first of many incredible things in store for us.
Will you do me the great honor of being my wife and partner? ”
Miranda knelt so that she could put her arms around his neck, and kiss him and say, “Yes, yes, yes,” before she started crying.
“Hey,” he said softly. “I was hoping this would make you happy.”
“I am so happy,” she said between hiccups of tears.
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
And she was.
Overjoyed.
It was almost—almost—too much to bear.